


Pursued by a Memory

by Magisey



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anxiety, Body Horror, Horror, Occult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 17:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20261563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magisey/pseuds/Magisey
Summary: Both men jump, startled by the proximity. Arthur's heart beats heavy in his throat, his fingers twitch against the familiar steel of his pistol’s handle. Charles is poised as well, his double barrel in one hand, drawn with fluid grace like an extension of his arm. Seconds bleed away, their eyes jumping at every twist of shadow, their ears perk at the sound of leaves shivering in the wind sent from the waterfall, their skin prickles at the cold mist, every muscle taunt with energy wound for striking.Seconds bleed into minutes. Only the fire, the subtle sounds of nature, and the thunder of their heartbeats can be heard.





	Pursued by a Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my piece from the Red Dead Redemption zine: Wolf's Head. It was an absolute blast working on this and the editors. This is my first attempt at a scary story/horror story, and wow is it fun to write. I might do more works later.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Life had rhythms — the slow rise of the sun dragging along with it the heavy blanket of oppressive, wet heat from the swamp; the sound of the coffee pot boiling against the flame of the fire; the scent of the final dregs of last night’s stew slowly drying to a hard crust at the bottom of their black cauldron. There were the groans and bickers of people rising, greeting one another, rousing awake bit by bit. Usually, it was the sweetest music Arthur had ever heard. 

Then there were days like today, where a wild burr is up his ass and even the most pleasant, lyrical hellos are met with scowls. Days when everything from simple chatter to the sound of horses made him feel like a piece of hot steel below a blacksmith’s hammer — the vibrations rolling shockwaves across his skin, chipping away at his patience. 

By the time most have risen to groggily fill a tin cup full of coffee, Arthur has Huckleberry saddled and a foot in the stirrup. No one is going to stop him — after all, it wasn’t weird for Arthur to go off on his lonesome. To those waking up, it’s just Mr. Morgan heading out on another trip.

“Where you heading, Arthur?”

Then of course, there were some who were observant, and none more so than Charles Smith. Normally, Arthur’d just brush off the curious and get on his way, but the calm, even tone soothed some of the nervous energy building in his chest. 

“Goin’ to get some air. Hunt a little.” It isn’t a lie, but it isn’t the whole truth either. Something in the way Charles narrows his eyes tells Arthur that his friend has seen through it all. Actually saying that he needs space, that the complex way in which all their lives in the camp meshed and weaved together felt more like a noose and less like a tapestry just isn’t possible.

Charles hums and gives one affirmative nod, “Let me get my things.” Before any protest can be launched, he’s gone. There’s nothing to be done, or at least, that’s the excuse he’s using. It definitely has nothing to do with the comfort another rider would bring, especially one as close to him as Charles.

It takes little time for him to get Taima ready. Charles lets him lead, and Arthur decides to just go. No place in mind, no hope of finding anything specific - just the promise of miles and miles between himself and the knotted, tangled web of worries, debts, and circumstances back at camp.

* * *

Arthur isn’t sure how far they travel. The sun had just risen when they had ridden out of camp, and now it hangs overhead, sullen and round. It's pleasantly warm — the crisp air from the creek refreshing. Shadows from the leaves dance upon the ground, making up changing patterns that sway with the soft, mid afternoon breeze. It is pleasant, a sort of calm quietness that is loud only in the way nature best can be — a babbling brook, the cacophony of bird song, and the soft crunch of leaves below both of their horse’s feet. 

They wander along the banks of the river, following it until it leads to a large waterfall — the temperature dropping by a few degrees. Enough that the sweat on Arthur’s brow turns to a chill, one he can’t shake off completely. It’s that feeling of something watching you, of something just out of the corner of your eye that flits away when you look. Arthur checks over his shoulder, halfway convinced he’ll find someone behind a tree, but sees no one.

“Something the matter, Arthur?” Charles’ question breaks some of the tension; he’s not alone. 

“No, just something don’t feel right. I can’t quite put my finger on it.” And that would be reason enough to leave — usually. But the water is crystal clear and the fish come almost to the surface. Their scales shimmer in the brilliant light like diamonds. Arthur chalks his feelings up to nervousness, to that last bit of residual tension that hasn’t been shed in the comforting ride.

They fish and play along the creek’s edge, enjoying the cool freshness and the noise of nature. The water is fresh and sweet as it comes down the waterfall, the mist from it changing a blistering hot day into something much more tolerable. If there’s a conversation, it is had in fits and spurts — not due to awkwardness, but by the very nature of their being. Words are not as special, or needed, when a look or a touch carries the same, if not more, meaning.

The weather holds, though the temperature continues to dip lower. Mist, fine and gauzy, lays over the shore of the creek like a shawl on a fine lady's shoulder. Delicate and easily ignored, no more than a distraction from the fish that keep biting long into the creeping hours of evening. They haul out half a dozen big ones, all over a foot long — dreams of roasted fish float in Arthur's mind, the various herbs he has gathered weighing heavy in his pockets.

Good weather, pleasant nature, and excellent company is a siren song that can seduce a stronger man than Arthur. In a moment, the spell is snapped — gone is the gauzy mist, now fog, thick and languid, spreads across the banks of the creek. It reminds Arthur of those stories of the boiling liquid in a witches pot, the nefarious smoke creeping along the ground like a snake waiting to strike. "Christ alive," Arthur grouses, gesturing with a hand towards the scenery around them. "Guess it's time to get goin'." 

"Sounds good. It's odd — I didn't notice it getting thicker." 

And that line from Charles has Arthur's skin crawling. Once more, the feeling of eyes upon him, of being hunted and stalked, creeps along his spine. It takes every bit of his will power to move at a normal, casual speed while securing the fish to Huckleberry's saddle. There is some relief to finally climbing into the saddle, the promise of getting the hell out of here enough to soothe whatever primal instinct was riled.

Time becomes warped, passing at an agonizing pace. Every second is a fleck of sand weighing on Arthur's shoulders, pouring off onto the trail below them. A trail to follow — and follow it they do. As the fog thickens at an alarming pace, visibility reduces. Branches lash out, grasping at clothes and horses. Taima and Huckleberry are well trained — neither bolt at the sudden whaps or jerks of the rein, but they are getting antsy. 

Each round and round of travel, they end up at the same gnarled, rotten tree — the wood morphs into the lumpy skin of that promised, unforeseen witch that unleashed her cauldron of fog. Each passing moment, Arthur feels the eyes grow, his anxiety ticking upwards. Each time they take a new path, it circles back.

Finally, with a heaving sigh and a frustrated growl, Arthur scrubs a hand hard over his face. “We ain’t gettin’ nowhere. This is a goddamn mess.”

“There’s a spot over there, between those trees.” Charles picks up the pieces, the unsaid words. Despite the cold of the fog or the chill of eyes upon him, Arthur is grateful.

They split tasks, once more in silence. Charles begins to build a fire — despite the close proximity to the waterfall, dry dead wood is easy enough to find. Arthur works on tents, driving stakes at the corners and setting up the larger branches that he finds surreptitiously placed near, ones perfect for the central poles. 

Soon enough, both men are sitting beside the fire, an old blanket serving as a seat. It's not a roaring fire, but it's warm and it's comforting. The dull pop and crackle of the branches soothes the worry in Arthur. For a moment, there is peace.

And then there is a crack of a large, heavy branch breaking.

Both men jump, startled by the proximity. Arthur's heart beats heavy in his throat, his fingers twitch against the familiar steel of his pistol’s handle. Charles is poised as well, his double barrel in one hand, drawn with fluid grace like an extension of his arm. Seconds bleed away, their eyes jumping at every twist of shadow, their ears perk at the sound of leaves shivering in the wind sent from the waterfall, their skin prickles at the cold mist, every muscle taunt with energy wound for striking.

Seconds bleed into minutes. Only the fire, the subtle sounds of nature, and the thunder of their heartbeats can be heard.

"Probably an animal." Arthur's words are thin and brittle after worming their way out of his clenched teeth.

"Or Murphees." Charles response is equally measured.

But nothing comes for them. No inbreds from the mist or beasts attracted to their haven in the damp, chill night. Nothing. 

Arthur forces a laugh and rolls his shoulders. "Aw, look at us. Spooked like a couple-a boys. No way the Murphees would be out in this weather."

For a moment Charles says nothing and then, as carefully as he set his gun away, the mantle of tension eases off his shoulders. "You're probably right; though I've heard there's mangy animals around here."

"They wouldn't come near and wouldn't be so stealthy." Seeing as his words did nothing to erase the threat hanging in the air, Arthur decides in a second to take a different approach, "Besides, I survived that beast over in the Grizzlies. Some sick animal isn't gonna scare me none."

"A beast?" Arthur smirks at Charles’s raised eyebrow. Hook, line, and sinker — A poor fisherman, but decent at baiting conversations.

Well sure," he busies himself then with setting up their grill. The fish won't last long, or that's the excuse he's using for the moment. "I told the story hundreds of times at the camp. You're tellin' me you ain't heard it?"

"I tend to tune out most stories." 

"This one has the element that makes for the best stories..." He waits to see if Charles will ask, but his friends lips are set, and his arms folded over his chest. It's question enough for Arthur to continue: "It's true."

"Just get on with it, Arthur." Charles laugh warms him as much as the fire does. Rekindled, Arthur sets a hunk of fish meat on the grill and begins.

"Well, just like today, it started off good. Nice weather, great scenery, and generous hunting. But I decided to take a shortcut, figured I'd cut some time off travelin' and I could be closer to camp. Maybe make it home that night —"

* * *

The thick trees were just the right distance apart to be a trouble for Huckleberry's footing. Evening was falling, but the darkness in this patch of forest was thicker - the canopy overhead seemingly braided together, a blanket of branches and needles and leaves. In daylight, it had been pleasant and shaded, but now it suffocated both rider and horse.

Turning back wasn’t smart now - not with how far along he had ridden. As night crept in, the darkness falling upon them like a coffin lid closing, Arthur finally saw his salvation: A thin wisp of smoke, carried on the breeze. “Campfire?” the question went unanswered, but the smoke seemed to pull away, like a finger beckoning him closer. 

Beckoning Arthur and his mare to the edge of a clearing. It was perfectly circular, like God had reached down with a biscuit cutter and scooped all the trees away. At each cardinal direction sat a smouldering stump, the greyish white smoke that had lured them there was emitted from it. The scent of it clung to the air, underlined with tangy metallic iron.

Arthur’s stomach flipped. In the center, the dead center, was a large stake upon which the upper torso of a man was impaled. Shreds of flesh and muscle fluttered in the gentle, evening breeze. Unlike the symmetry of the clearing or the carefully placed stumps, the lower half of the torso could only be described as shredded. Long cuts left red ribbons of blood trailing from the abdomen down. Blood, thick and oozing, covered the pole, puddling on the ground below. Where the head should be was the skull of a deer with a small rack of antlers.

Every fiber of his being was screaming, ‘_ Run _.’ Yet some spell, some foreign magic, held him stiff in place, his horse too. Panic clawed at his throat and chest until, with horror filled eyes, Arthur watched as the fleshy ribbons at the bottom of the torso began to form into the pole — slowly, the wood seemed to bend and twist and fill out the missing pieces.

It was a flash at the other end of the clearing that got both rider and horse startled from the spell, snapped back into action and reality. With a shrill whinny, Huckleberry turned sharp and charged back and away from the clearing. Only years of riding kept Arthur in the saddle, his heart hammering in time to her hooves.

On their heels came a sound — Almost like a bear’s roar, but not quite. It was as if someone had snatched the sound from the air and ripped it up, twisted it, and threw it back out. A roar so deep and filled with tones and sharp, biting staccato notes it left Arthur’s mind reeling. Inhuman, just as that thing had been — a deer skull, a rack so large it seemed to defy gravity, and wooden tree bark skin; With claws as long as a double barrel shotgun, sharp glinting in the dying light.

But it was neither roar nor razor sharp claws that scared Arthur the most. No, what hurt, what felt like his skin was being peeled away, were the words. Voices, dissonant and echoing in his mind, pulling him apart inch by agonizing inch.

_ “You run as you always have, as you always will.” _ To the right, a flash of skull, the ratte of bones and the creak of wood. 

It came again, _ “Taking money from the sick, cheating the poor. You are no better than a common thief.” _

Arthur’s breath came in short, frightened gasps as he leaned down into the saddle, his knuckles white around the lead. “No! That ain’t true — We help folks.”

Laughter rained down around them, chilling Arthur to the bone. There was no hiding the truth, no arguing. 

_ “Just like the ones who took him. A little boy for ten dollars.” _ Darkness crept around his vision, those words deadlier than a knife sinking hilt deep in his heart.

_ “She loved you, she did, and yet you let her go.” _

_ “Let her go.” _

_ “You let her down.” _

_ “Slaughtering without care, killing without need.” _

“I did my best! I… I’m trying! I…” Arthur’s words faltered, falling to dust, right as Huckleberry broke past the line of trees. He let her run some yards, gasping for breath. Fearful that the thing would follow, he turned around to look.

There, at the edge of the thick trees, he could see it — Tall and lean, with skin made of bark and ivy. It gave Arthur one final message, a whisper instead of a shout.

_ “You were never _ destined _ to be a good man. You _ never _ will be.” _

* * *

That last message Arthur keeps to himself. The story ends right when he turns back, seeing the thing disappear once more into the darker woods. Charles sits still, listening with rapt attention, up until the very end.

“No.” It’s such a simple, stark response that it actually makes Arthur laugh a little. 

“No? And how do you know that it ain’t real?” Arthur returns.

Charles takes his time with his words, and in the end shrugs one shoulder, “It doesn’t make sense. Besides, why didn’t you just shoot it?”

“Well, Mr. Wiseacre, I happened t’be fleein’ for my —”

A sound. A roar. Broken and mangled. Torn by hands not of this world, stitched together, and sent back out. Both deep and high pitches, low moaning, and staccato.

Both men freeze.In silence they sit, waiting for something to come from the mist — for _ it _ to come from the fog.

“Arthur.” Charles’ voice is low and slow, a forced calm in it betrayed only by the waver at the end of his words, “I think we should get in the tent.”

“Yessir…” Slowly, he inches back towards the tent, “Thinkin’ it’s a mite cold for uh, two tents. Maybe…”

“We share. Yes. Good.”

A twig snaps in the forest, and both men scramble, shouting and cursing as they bolt into the tent and close both sides.

The next morning comes early, burning off the fog. They leave as soon as they can, the urgency blamed on the fish going bad. As they leave the area, Arthur checks over his shoulder one last time. It might be the trick of the light, or the memory of a poor night’s sleep, but he swears he sees it —

Sharp claws, bark skin, and a deer skull, fading back into the forest once more.

**Author's Note:**

> My twitter is @SaySeyMe - throw me a message!


End file.
